


three letters

by hi_im_why



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Davos accidentally adopts the starks, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow-centric, Like, Lots of OC's, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), My First Work in This Fandom, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Jon Snow, POV Sansa Stark, Queerplatonic Relationships, R Plus L Equals J, Survival, Title will probably be changed, Warg Jon Snow, a gratuitous amount. i'll make a guide or something one day, but he has issues too and suffers for it so :/, dadvos, first work in this fandom xoxo, i don't want to do any big spoilers, is jon a little op? maybe, like it's fun in the beginning but uh, no beta we die like men, people are going to suffer, tags will update throughout the story, the desc will probably be changed, this is game of thrones that's to be expected
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26494795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hi_im_why/pseuds/hi_im_why
Summary: When Jon dies, he doesn't see nothing. He has a vision of crows, and caves, and a single dragon egg. When he shares this after his resurrection, Melisandre tells him he must go North. With nothing left to do and nowhere left to go, Jon listens, and although his watch is ended, there's still much left for him to see.aka: jon gets a vision, sansa arrives just a little too late to castle black, and nothing is as it seems.
Relationships: Davos Seaworth & Jon Snow, Davos Seaworth & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow & Edd Tollett, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 54





	1. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon dreams, and then he lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi loves! A good hunk of dialogue from this chapter is from Game of Thrones. I really hope you enjoy it, though. Most chapters won’t be like this, they’ll have mainly original dialogue and events, but suffer with me through this for a little. Thanks! I took some additional liberties with geography and made a few alterations to the timeline and a few past events occurred a little different.

_It was cold._

_That was the first thing that Jon noticed as he grew aware of where he was. He was on a hill, staring at the great, weeping weirwood tree that grew opposite to him. Snow stirred all around him, battering his cheeks and stinging as flakes flew into his eyes. Jon tried to remember how he got there–and then it hit him. He had just been stabbed by his own men–Jon didn’t know how many times. He never even felt the fourth knife, or the ones after that._

_Was he in the afterlife? He didn’t expect it to be like this–or like anything, really. Just darkness and his body returning to the earth and the Old Gods. But he was at the weirwood._

Look for me... beneath the tree... north. _A voice called out in the wind, and Jon whipped around to see who had spoken to no avail. A flock of crows took flight from the tree. He was getting warmer, feeling heat. His vision flashed, and then he was beneath the tree–a rotting cavern with roots and an elderly man and... was that Bran? Hodor? Jon didn’t recognize the girl accompanying them, though. Jon walked towards the man in the tree, gnarled roots growing through his old and wizened body. The man met his eyes, and Jon felt hot. A flash of an egg–a dragon egg–filled his vision, and Jon was burning up. He couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t he breathe–_

He awoke with a gasp. He panted, inhaling the air as though each breath was his last. He wasn’t convinced that they weren’t–he wasn’t quite sure yet if he was truly still alive, until Ghost padded over to him, nudging his hand with his snout, and Ser Davos burst into the room.

Jon was hyperventilating, _I was dead, seven hells, I was dead,_ he thought as Ser Davos steadied him, and wrapped him in a cloak.

“Easy, easy,” the older man soothed, settling him back onto the table. “What do you remember?” He asked as Jon continued to catch his breath. Melisandre walked in, eyes wide.

“They stabbed me,” Jon murmured, recounting the events to himself more than anybody else. His gaze was fixated on the floor. “Olly... he put a knife in my heart.” _Oh Gods,_ “I shouldn’t be here.” He shook his head, looking up to Davos.

Ser Davos wrung his hands, looking down to Jon. “The lady brought you back,” he said quickly, nodding towards Melisandre. She rushed to him, getting on her knees and looking up at him in earnest.

“After they stabbed you–after you died, where did you go? What did you see?” She spilled out, and Jon looked away from her, shutting his eyes and squeezing his knees with his hands.

“A weirwood, far up north. Something... something was calling to me. Telling me to go there and meet it. There were crows and then I saw–” he cut himself off, opening his eyes. _Bran._ “I saw my brother, with Hodor, and some other girl and an old man embedded in the roots of the tree above. Then everything flashed and...” he trailed off, trying to remember. It all seemed too fresh but he could already feel things escaping him. No, he _needed_ to remember.

“And?” The Red Woman prompted, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. It was warm.

“I saw an egg–a dragon egg. It was dark, and I couldn’t make out the details, but it was a dragon egg. I know it.” Her grip on his hand loosened before she drew it back, and he moved his back to his knee. Melisandre’s eyes were thinking, contemplative. “What does this mean?” He asked, pleadingly. He was dead. _He was dead, why was he back? Why was he brought back? What do those visions mean? Were they of the past? Present? Future?_ Jon’s mind was a flurry of thoughts, and he fought to contain himself. He almost wanted to lie back down onto the table and allow death to take him once more.

“The voice told you to go further north?” She repeated, and Jon nodded, a little overwhelmed. He kept his eyes on the floor, alternating between squeezing them shut and opening them, wide eyed. “Then that is where you must go. The Lord of Light brought you back for a reason, you must fulfill it.”

“That’s what you would say to Stannis, that he was there for a reason. Now his head is chopped off and his army is gone. Why should Jon listen to you?” Davos argued, shaking his head. He sighed, looking to Jon and then back at the Red Woman, “Could you give us a moment?” He asked, and she nodded hesitantly before leaving. The ex-smuggler shut the door behind her, and pulled a chair up to sit across from Jon.

“You were dead,” he began, “And now you’re not. That’s completely fucking _mad_ seems to me. I can only imagine how it seems to you.”

Jon was torn. “I did what I thought was right–” he paused, licking his lips. They were chapped and dry and Jon _really_ needed water. “And I got murdered for it, and now I’m back.” He looked up to Davos, teary eyed and a little broken. “Why? To go up north and die again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll never know. Does it matter? You go on, pursue some mystical destiny, or don’t. You fight, for as long as you can. You clean up as much of this _shit_ as you can.” Ser Davos spoke sympathetically, and Jon was struck by how similar it felt to when his father would encourage or comfort him when he was younger.

He swallowed, “I don’t know how to do that. I thought I did, but...” he trailed off and shook his head. “I failed.”

“Good, now go fail again.” 

***

Jon winced as Tormund hugged him close. The wounds on his chest burned. He pulled out of the hug and the redhead patted him on the back. 

He felt everyone’s bewildered eyes on him, staring, questioning, _dissecting_ him right there in the yard. He wanted to leave. These men–they were his brothers, ones that he had shared meat and mead with and jested and laughed and sparred with. But he had also thought that those who had stabbed him– _killed_ him–were his brothers. 

He wondered if there were others that agreed with Thorne, that also wanted a knife in his heart. Would there be another mutiny? _I’m getting more and more like Lord Commander Mormont. First I get his sword, then I get killed by my own men,_ he thought wryly as he gazed upon the faces of the men.

His eyes met with Edd’s, and he made his way towards his friend. A brother that he _knew_ he could trust with his life. The crowd parted for him. They embraced one another, Jon giving a small grunt as his chest stung again. When they parted, Edd looked up into his eyes. “Well, your eyes are still brown. ‘That still you in there?”

“I think so,” he paused. “Hold off on burning my body for now.”

The two smiled, and Edd gave a small, amused huff. “That’s funny." He peered at Jon, "Sure that’s still you in there?”

Jon laughed.

***

“It’s time.” Edd said, and Jon set down the bloodied vest and picked up Longclaw. 

He walked out into the brisk air, slowly making his way towards the gallows. The steps creaked under his feet as he walked up to them. The others had died when the wildings had stormed Castle Black in his name. “If you have any last words, now is the time,” he told them. He would look them all in the eyes and hear their final words before cutting the rope.

Bowen Marsh was first. “You shouldn’t be alive,” he rushed out, “It’s not right.”

Jon was actually a little irked at that, but not at all enough to let it show. “Neither was killing me.”

Othell Yarwyck was next. _They’ll have to appoint a new First Builder,_ Jon noted _._ “My mother’s still at White Harbor. Could you write her? Tell her I died fighting the wildlings.” Jon fixed a gaze at him for a moment longer before moving on to Alliser Thorne.

“I had a choice, _Lord Commander;_ betray you, or betray the Night’s Watch. You brought an army of wildlings into our lands, an army of murderers and raiders. If I had to do it all over, knowing where I’d end up, I _pray_ I’d make the right choice again.” The knight spoke with conviction, and Jon could at least credit him for his nerve alone.

“I’m sure you would, Ser Alliser.” Jon couldn’t help the hint of contempt in his voice. It was ironic, truly. The Night’s Watch was mainly comprised of murderers, thieves, rapers, and the like, and Thorne had the audacity to condemn the wildings simply because they were born further north, on the wrong side of the Wall. It was _stupid._

“I fought... I lost. And now I rest. But you, _Lord Snow,_ you’ll be fighting their battles forever.” The knight looked down at him one more time, shaking his head before tilting his chin up in pride? Acceptance? Jon couldn’t find it within himself to care. His words did strike a chord in Jon, though. He was _tired_ of fighting, and living a life devoted to it almost made him want to ask Melisandre to put him back under. 

He stood in front of Olly, steeling himself before finally looking up. He wished he hadn’t–the insurmountable degree of hatred in the boy’s eyes made Jon swallow, and tears gathered in his eyes. He was no older than Jon must have been when he had first arrived at the wall. Perhaps even younger. He shouldn’t have that dark look in his eyes. He _shouldn’t._

No words were exchanged. Jon walked to the rope, holding his sword as though it were his lifeline. He took a deep breath. These men– _this boy_ killed him. His sworn brothers. This was so much harder that Slynt. This was a _boy._ A boy that he had wanted to succeed him. 

And now he was going to be hanged by Jon’s hand. All four of them would be.

_Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born._

Jon summoned all the rage, betrayal, and hate that he felt as he swung. The rope snapped, and he pivoted to see them struggle and writhe. He watched them slowly still, faces purple and eyes glassy and cold. He breathed heavily, angry and hurt, and knew that he couldn’t be in the Night’s Watch anymore. 

He sheathed his sword before turning away from the hanging bodies. Edd stopped him before he walked back down the stairs. “You should burn the bodies.”

“You should,” he replied, shrugging off the Lord Commander’s cloak and handing it to his friend. 

“What do you want me to do with this?”

“Wear it, burn it, whatever you want. You have Castle Black,” Jon said, and continued past him.

Jon moved swiftly through the yard, back towards his chambers. 

“My watch is ended."

***

Jon shuffled about the room, gathering furs and anything else necessary into a bag. Edd was in the corner, holding Longclaw. His face was pressed in a frown.

He broke the silence, “Where are you going to go?” He asked.

“North,” Jon replied briskly, and Edd guffawed. 

“Are you trying to die _again_ _?_ You just bloody woke up and now you’re going to go and freeze your balls off beyond the wall and join the Army of the Dead?” 

Jon sighed, “I don’t like it either, believe me.”

“Then why in seven hells are you going? You can’t kill the Night King alone, and there’s no one left up there. Everyone else left was at Hardhome, and there isn’t anyone back there anymore, that’s for certain.” Edd let the sword against the wall, sitting down onto the chair at Jon’s desk.

“When I was... dead,” Jon started, cringing, “I had a vision. It was telling me I had to go north, and there isn’t really anything for me to do elsewhere. It felt so _real,_ I feel as though I must go.” He explained, though it did feel a bit silly as he said it out loud. Nonetheless, it was the truth.

Edd exhaled sympathetically. “Y’know, if I had heard you say that a moon ago I’d have called you mad and hit you upside the head. Now, though, I’ve seen a man rise from the dead without being another blue-eyed cunt, so I’m not going to smack you just yet.” He provided. “Not yet, anyways. Maybe beyond the wall.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “No, Edd. You _can’t_ go beyond the wall with me.” He stressed. “You’re Lord Commander now. You’re needed here. The Old Bear died last time he went beyond the wall and–”

“And you died right here at Castle Black. I think it’s safe to say that Lord Commander isn’t a good position if you wish to stay alive, so damn you for giving me this bloody cloak.” Jon didn’t know what to say to that. “We’ll set up a ranging party with a few wildlings and some of the other brothers to travel beyond the wall. Any clue as to where we need to go?”

He folded and sat down on his bed, too tired to argue. “I think so. South of the Antler, a bit over twice as far as Craster’s Keep. It would take us a moon’s turn to get there, give or take.” Jon said. He had studied maps in the library with Davos one night, scanning each for the whereabouts of a great weirwood. He was astonished that Bran had made it so far being crippled. He’d have to thank his brother’s travelling companions once he arrived there–if they were even real to begin with.

“You mean what _remains_ of Craster’s Keep. I wonder what his daughter-wives are doing now.” Edd mused.

“They were sighted a few moons ago, if I remember correctly.” Jon replied, not sparing him a glance as he continued to wrap furs. “If we’re doing this, we leave before the week’s done.”

Edd got up and clapped him on the back before leaving. “I’ll start setting things up.”

***

It was a surprisingly sunny day when they left the wall. Still, freezing cold, of course, but there was little wind and the trees of the forest would provide good shade. The group was small, consisting of Jon, Edd, a couple other Night’s Watch men, and a handful of the wildlings. Jon didn’t particularly know why the men had agreed to join him in this pursuit; he was going on a dangerous ranging beyond the wall all because of a vision he had while dead.

When Jon had voiced this concern to Edd as they walked to the gate with Ser Davos, who was seeing them off, the man simply shook his head. “I don’t know why, Jon, but people follow you. I do, the wildlings do, the Night’s Watch does–well, some of them, anyways–you’re a bloody simpleton half the time, so I really don’t get it, but there’s something to you.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me, Edd. Are you feeling alright?” Jon said with a smile.

Edd cursed, and punched him in the shoulder, and Jon snorted before turning to Davos.

“Ser Davos, I ask you to try and keep the peace in Castle Black while we’re gone. You know how to speak with people and calm them down. You aren’t Lord Commander, or a sworn brother at all, but I trust you.” He said with earnest.

“Thank you, Jon. Don’t die again, please. It was stressful enough the first time.” The knight said, and Jon nodded.

“I won’t.”

Jon hopped onto his horse with Ghost at his side. The gate closed loudly behind him.

***

It took them about a week to get to Craster’s Keep. It was dark when they arrived, and the abandoned keep looked even more trashed than he had remembered. Given it had now been fully burnt down, and only small items remained. He looked over the rubble. There was charred wood, bones, and other left behind pieces of junk. It felt so different here now, Jon felt.

The last time he had been there, he was killing the mutineers. He never really inspected the remains of the keep after all, and it had been burning when he had left it. Sam met Gilly here, he recalled. He saw a baby boy get stolen away by a White Walker.

Jon clenched his jaw as he came across a charred skull. It had been made into a cup, and there were wine stains on the inside of it. He held it in his hands, regarding it with a fine mixture of both curiosity and disgust.

“That’s the Old Bear’s skull.” Edd said from behind him, and Jon almost jumped. He turned around to face his friend.

“What?”

“Karl Tanner took his skull and drank wine from it. Grenn and I were at the mutiny, remember?” 

Jon looked down at the skull in his hand, and clutched the pommel of Longclaw. _I’m sorry._ He thought, even though he knew it would go unheard. _You didn’t deserve to go that way._

Edd sighed, “Come on, we need to make camp for the night. We still have about a three week journey ahead of us, and I’m going to need a lot of sleep and a lot of drink to make it that far.” 

Jon nodded, and he set the skull back down, reminding himself to burn the bones later. 

***

When camp was made and the night had truly fallen, they all sat by the fire, drinking ale and jesting with one another. A spearwife from a river clan named Tyla was telling old tales of ice spiders and other wicked creatures from the Long Night to the two other members from her clan and a black brother named Tom. The brother was a new recruit, a few years younger than Jon, and a green boy born in the summer. He was a bit frightened by the stories, which the other men found amusing as they snickered at his expression. Jon was reminded of when he was younger and would sit by Robb and Sansa as Old Nan told them off such monsters. 

Jon knew that the legends were real now, and that wounded the sentiment a little, but it was still a fond memory. 

Ghost had settled beside him, leaning his head against Jon’s shin. He bent down and scratched the wolf behind the ears, taking a swig from the wineskin. 

When the stories were over–Tyla was too drunk to remember them right, a big and burly man with greying blond hair who went by Ralf Stonefoot began to sing. Ralf was from the Hornfoots, Jon remembered, who wore no shoes that their soles turned black and hard. Jon looked at Ralf’s feet subtly. They _did_ look like stones, to a degree. 

Ralf’s song was much less singing and more belting, but the bawdy song had a jolly tune to it, and soon they were all swept up in the ridiculousness of it all, clapping along and attempting to join in. Jon saw Edd clap a little when Ralf was finished, though the cynic was nose-deep into his ale.

It was a good night. The skies were clear and the fire was warm, and soon everyone was asleep in their bedrolls underneath the forest canopy.

***

_It was worryingly hot where Jon was, and he only needed to turn to see why._

_There was a burning funeral pyre in front of him, the body on it blackened and charred, unrecognizable. He heard whispers of little children all around him, filled with wonder and awe, and perhaps a little bit of fear. He swiveled to find the speakers, but nobody was around._

_Jon turned back to the fire. The dragon egg from his vision sat upon it. It was just him and the body and the flames. Jon needed to touch it, he needed to_ move, _he–_

“Get up, bloody hells!”

He awoke with a gasp, sweaty and wide eyed. There was fighting going on, he noticed dumbly, and stumbled to stand and pick up his sword. The headache from last night’s activities pounded in his skull, but he unsheathed Longclaw and took inventory of his surroundings. 

It was Tom that had shook him awake, panicked. He was trying to rip a wight off of himself. Jon sliced the creature’s head off, and the boy got back up, giving him a nod before storming others. 

Ralf was on the ground, dead, with a rusted dirk still shoved through his skull. The blood beneath him stained his bedroll and the snow was dyed red– _he must have been killed in his sleep._

The other black brother died of similar circumstance, through the throat. Jon cringed when he noticed the brother’s eyes were wide open, and his mouth was wide in a silent scream. _He must have woken up just before he was killed,_ Jon realized with a grimace.

The wights were relatively easy to kill. Only a few were armed, and even then it was only with knives and daggers. The only reason they had taken out two of their men was because they had gotten the jump on them. Once they had all been disposed of, Jon took to building the pyres with the remaining men. Edd looked down at one of the wights, peering at its face, “Seven hells, these are Craster’s daughters.” 

Jon dragged a hand down his face, “I should have never left them alone,” he murmured, hoisting up another body and setting it on the pyre. 

“Don’t blame yourself, pretty boy. They wanted to go out on their own and they did, they just got killed for it. It’s fucked, but you aren’t to blame.” Tyla said as she set Ralf’s body down as well. 

Tom was the one that lit the fire, the other brother there had been his closest friend from his time at the Wall. Most of the wildings didn’t say words over their dead. As Tom gave a farewell, Jon looked at the flames. He briefly recalled his dream from earlier, and his eyes flickered. He almost took a step towards the fire, drawn to it, before Edd put a hand on his shoulder and looked at him oddly. Jon recognized the questioning look in his eyes, shaking his head.

Jon looked away from the fire and stepped back, eyes fixated on Ghost, who was watching him intently. 

The bodies smelt foul as they burnt, but Jon was so used to it at that point he didn’t even cringe. Guilt fell heavy in his heart as he looked over at the corpses. This was _his_ ranging, and men had already died for it only a week in. He made note to set up a watch rotation at night.

Tom soon reached the end of his goodbye, and Jon and Edd echoed him solemnly.

“And now his watch is ended.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Deep apologies for how heavy this chapter is on the show dialogue. I promise, this doesn’t apply to most chapters.
> 
> edit 9/17/20: added chapters 1 and two together.


	2. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa arrives at Castle Black, and Jon isn't there to greet her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so although this is a jon-centric story, i’m taking different routes with the characters as well. especially sansa! i didn’t really expect to write her much, because i actually wasn’t the biggest fan of her characters in the last two seasons, but i actually am enjoying writing her! she deserves comfort :)

Sansa had never been to the Wall before. It was colder than at Winterfell, and the air was thinner, but anything was welcome after Ramsay. Hells, she could have been planted in the middle of the Red Waste and still been thankful. She looked around as she entered, hoping to see Jon. _He is the Lord Commander now, right?_

She looked back at Brienne and Podrick, both of which were on guard, hands on the pommels of their swords. She turned around again just in time to spot an older man approaching them. 

“Hello, miss,” the man greeted in a Flea Bottom accent–one she easily recognized after sitting in court at King’s Landing so many times.

Brienne scowled, “You served under Stannis Baratheon.” 

“I was his hand, yes. I’m not anymore, though, due to some strong fellow ending him.” Davos confirmed, shifting his balance.

“That would be me. I took his head.” Brienne replied, and Sansa tensed for a violent reaction.

Instead, the man just sighed and shook his head. “He lost his way, near the end there. Maddened by desperation. I won't say that I don't mourn him, though. And you are?"

“Brienne of Tarth. I served under Renly Baratheon as one of his Kingsguard. I was there when a shadow that had Stannis’ face killed him.” _Oh._

“Apologies for that, I didn’t much like it either, my lady.” The stranger replied as he shifted his balance yet again. It was awkward, and tense, and Sansa felt cold and brittle.

“Is the Red Witch here?” Brienne demanded.

Ser Davos nodded, “Though I ask that you not kill her. I dislike her as well, but she saved Jon Snow’s life.” Sansa’s eyes widened, _Jon!_

She coughed into her hand softly, interrupting the exchange while Podrick stared at the ground as though it were the most interesting thing he’d ever laid his eyes on.

The elder man cleared his throat, “My name is Ser Davos Seaworth, what brings you to Castle Black?”

“We need to see the Lord Commander, Jon Snow.” Sansa replied.

“You just missed him, he left on a mission up north about two weeks back. We don’t know when he’ll get back.” He said, “Why do you need him, may I ask?”

Sansa fiddled with the reins of her horse. “I’m Sansa Stark, Jon is my brother.”

Ser Davos’ eyes widened. “My lady, apologies for the poor reception.” And then, as a low mutter, “Bloody hells, Jon. You picked the worst time to go beyond the Wall.”

Sansa almost smiled at that, but instead shivered as a breeze blew through her and her ruined clothes. Ser Davos noticed, “Ah, forgive me, m’lady. Let’s get you off your horse and to a fire. Do you wish for something to eat? I can catch you up over supper.”

***

“So you’re telling me he died.” Sansa clarified, setting down her bowl of stew.

Ser Davos gestured to the Red Woman in the corner who was watching her rather off puttingly. “The Lady Melisandre brought him back with her God of Light, apparently."

“I did not bring him back, the _Lord_ of Light did. I simply said the words, and the Lord answered.” She piped up.

Sansa lips were chapped and she winced as the bottom began to bleed after nipping at it in worry. “And he’s going beyond the Wall again, why? From what I gather, he should be released from his vows."

“Well, he and the new Lord Commander, along with a handful of others, are seeking out a tree that Jon had seen in a vision. Your brother is there as well, allegedly. The crippled one.” Davos replied, shaking his head, “I would say he’s mad, but I’ve seen far too much to start doubting things now.”

“This _is_ mad!” She refuted, rubbing at the corners of her eyes harshly. “Our home is being held by some monster and Jon is beyond the Wall in search of a _tree,_ of all things. A tree where Bran is supposed to be as well, maybe, but this all comes from some _vision._ Who’s to trust that?” She exclaimed, gesturing wildly with her hands. “Arya and Rickon are nowhere to be found, and everyone else in our family is dead.” She lamented, clenching her fists. If her nails hadn't been so bitten back they’d have sliced her palm. “The pack is seperated,” she noted, “and I don’t know how we’re to survive the winter.” Sansa released her grip and set them back on the table, tapping on it with her fingers. “I don’t know what to do.”

Ser Davos put a hand over her own, stopping her fidgeting. “You cannot allow yourself to think like that. Your brother does a lot of stupid things, but he always comes back–he came back from the damn dead, even. You have nothing to worry about on that front.” He comforted. “I cannot speak for your other siblings, but if they are half as strong as you and Jon, they should be fine.”

“Arya was able to escape King’s Landing, and Rickon was last seen at Winterfell, but that was years ago. I don’t know at all where they are.”

“That’s better than knowing they’re dead in the ground. There’s still hope, m’lady.”

Sansa gave a weak smile at that. Ser Davos reminded her of her father, though only vaguely. She grimaced at the reminder and the bitter memories it brought along with it. “It’s late,” she murmured, “Could you show me to my quarters?”

“Of course, m’lady. You need rest.”

***

Sansa had been at Castle Black for a week. Jon had been gone for almost three. He should be back in a little over a moon’s turn at the earliest. Sansa fretted, and enveloped herself in her needlework and reading. The library at the castle wasn’t nearly as large as the one at Winterfell, or Kings Landing, but had texts that severely outdated the others. As she buried herself in a tome detailing the visit of Good Queen Alysanne and her mount, Silverwing, Ser Davos walked in.

“Ser Davos,” she greeted, closing the books and setting it in her lap.

He bowed, “M’lady,” he replied in turn, holding up a letter. “A rider came.”

“Where from?” Sansa frowned.

“It’s from Winterfell, m’lady. Bolton seal.” The man answered solemnly. “It’s addressed to Jon, and although I hate to relay it elsewhere, he isn’t here and we don’t know when he is to return."

“Oh,” Sansa said, because she couldn’t really say anything else due to her quickening heartbeat. “Well, what does it say?”

Ser Davos handed her the letter. “Nothing good, I’m sure. It’s unbroken.”

She hesitated, pausing her fingers above the wax for a second. _Ramsay is not here. Ramsay is leagues away, in Winterfell. My home._ Sansa inhaled sharply for some form of courage before opening it.

> _To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow,_
> 
> _You allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard, come and see._
> 
> _Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon. His direwolf's skin is on my floor, come and see._
> 
> _I want my bride back. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride north to slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living. You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see._
> 
> _Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North_

Sansa exhaled, and shut her eyes tight, hoping that this was just a bad dream and when she awoke everything would be alright. When she opened them, however, all she saw was Ser Davos watching her concernedly. “That bad?” He inquired softly.

She nodded, a brisk and forced motion and gripped the arms of her chair so tightly that her knuckles went white. “He has my little brother, Rickon.” Biting her lip and shaking her head, she said, “We need to retake Winterfell.”

Davos hesitated, before walking towards her. “May I speak in truth, m’lady?”

“You may.”

“We should wait for Jon. We have no army, no plans, and no allies. We cannot take Winterfell with what we are now.”

Sansa sighed. “I know you’re right,” she allowed, wincing as her voice cracked from emotion, “but Winterfell is my _home_ . He has my _brother._ I will wait for Jon two sennights more, but Ramsay will be plotting and planning for _every_ second of that time. Rickon will be _suffering_ during that time. People will flock to the Stark name if we ask them to; the North will not forget the crimes of the Boltons.” _And need be, I can likely contact Petyr for the Vale, though I’d like to avoid that if possible._

Davos nodded, setting a hand on her shoulder and offering her another. She took it, and he helped her out of the chair, shaking. “Lady… Sansa, may I call you that?” She nodded in response, and so he continued. “I understand that this must be incredibly stressful to you, and I need you to know that you will not suffer through this alone. Aye, Jon cannot be here for you right now, but you have that lady-knight of yours, and her squire, and me, if it’d please you. You’re young, and you do not deserve to go through all this madness. You’re a strong young lady, but you shouldn’t feel the need to take each of these blows in silence.” He comforted, patting her shoulder.

Sansa’s lip trembled, and she broke. Tears began to run down her face, and she rushed to embrace Ser Davos, who was starkly taken aback. Internally, she scolded herself for being so vulnerable, and for crying like the little girl she once was, but she just couldn’t _stop._ She hadn’t had this form of comfort in many long years, and Davos was just so _sincere_ , not at all like the venomous snakes of the Capitol. 

He just stood there, awkwardly, before soothing her and patting her back. This was a girl that had gone through far too much, he decided, and swore that he wouldn’t allow her to end as he did Shireen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a really short chapter, i know ! chapters will be getting longer as this fic continues, writing exposition just causes me physical pain so i always keep it short. i'm planning to keep it about 1 pov per chapter, just to avoid confusion and to maintain a pattern, so some may be shorter than others depending on where they are in their storyline. thanks!


	3. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon arrives at the weirwood, and his world is turned upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so it continues ! i have no real update schedule but i’m hoping to put out chapters at least twice a month; school is difficult and my brain is bad so yeah !! and uh i know this stuff is super trope filled and cliche but it’s my mental illness so i get to choose the coping mechanism.

The wind whipped Jon’s face harshly and snow continued to gather in his beard, soaking it. They had departed for the weirwood about three sennights back, and the journey had been anything but easy. Jon missed his first ranging, when he had gone with the Watch, quite often. It was far easier then–the Walkers were farther north and they had more live men, more food, and more resources. Now, all Jon had was a freezing and exhausted group that just consisted of himself and ten others. If they had taken a group of 100 men or so, and they all fell, then they’d be sacrificing 100 to the Night King’s army. With a smaller group, they wouldn’t contribute as much. Jon would rather they not die, though. He still hadn’t fully gotten over his first passing, anyways.

Wights had frequented them, chiseling off their numbers one by one. Jon’s feet were freezing and his hands shook in exhaustion as they moved on, led by an elder named Styllen Clubhand. A couple of their horses had died during the journey, and they had butchered the corpses for meat before burning them, but almost everyone still had a garron to themself; a pair of wilding men shared one horse, but that was the only pair upon a single horse so far. 

Styllen was a short and lanky old man that had just hit seventy, but in relatively good health. He was of the same clan as Tyla, the Southern Forest Clan, and wielded a club better than anyone Jon thought could at that age. He was serving as the group’s guide through the Haunted Forest, having traveled it more than anyone else present. Jon was hesitant to bring him along, but the man had insisted, and people seconded his skills in navigation.

He was odd, though, for certain.

_Jon clicked his tongue, pulling Longclaw out of another wight. He looked around at his companions, who were all relatively unharmed, and let out a sigh of relief._

_“That’s the third time this week,” their warg, Teo, observed. It seemed as though the attacks from small wight groups only seemed to be increasing in quantity. They had lost two more men since the first attack, but were now accustomed to fighting them off and staying on near constant guard. “Makes me wonder what the Night King is planning.”_

_“Something great, I bet.” Styllen replied, and cracked his hip. Jon winced at the noise–he couldn’t imagine fighting so much at that age. “He’s to rain snow on us all and bring the longest night there is. An endless night–so cold that our blood will turn to ice in our veins.” He hummed, “It’s almost beautiful.”_

_Tyla sniffed. “Cram it, you old fool, you’re scaring the baby crow,” she gestured to Tom, who was a bit more pale than usual._

_Jon regretted taking the boy this far beyond the Wall, but it wasn’t as though he could turn back now. It was freezing cold, and wights were scattered everywhere. They hadn’t been ambushed again, due to Teo’s sharp eye, but Tom wouldn’t survive a day alone._

_Tom waved his hands in front of him apologetically, “No, no! It’s alright, really. Go on, sir.”_

_And so Styllen continued to wax poetic about the Night King. Jon, fed up, let his horse slow down and trailed towards the back of the group where Edd was._

_“He’s a mad bastard, ain’t he?” Edd japed warily as Jon settled his horse beside him. “At least he’s fightin against them, still. Old age drove him crazy over time though, I bet. Lucky for us, there’s no way in seven hells that we’re gonna live that long.”_

_“Forever optimistic, you are.” Jon replied, rolling his eyes._

_Edd cracked a smile, but it fell just as fast. “Simply trying to be realistic, here, Jon. This is a suicide mission, really. The Night King is sending wights after us every other day and the cold is worse than ever before. Few of us, if any at all, are going to make it back to the Wall alive.”_

_Jon swallowed, and a wave of guilt racked him, because he knew that what Edd was saying was likely the truth. Still, he gritted out, “We’ll make it back, Edd. We always do.”_

_Edd rolled his eyes, shifting on his horse. “_ You _always do, you mean. ‘Oh I’m Lord Snow, I’ve returned from both the dead and about a hundred other instances that would kill lesser men. I’m so pretty that even the gods favor me, in spite of the fact that my prick is smaller than my little finger.’” He mocked, furrowing his brow and lowering his voice._

_Frowning, Jon said, “I don’t sound like that.”_

_“It’s the best that I could do.” Edd excused with a shrug. “Pyp could have done better,” he added, and they both fell silent for a bit, mourning their dead friend._

_In front of the group, laughter broke out, stealing them away from thier quiet, and Jon saw Tom looking queasy from afar. He groaned, “I need to make sure that they don’t harass Tom into throwing up his morning meal.” Edd laughed in response, and Jon kicked his horse into a trot._

Despite Styllen being so strange, his _was_ a great guide through the forest, and before they knew it they were only about two days from the tree. _And from Bran,_ his mind supplied hopefully. 

“What do you think you’ll find there?” Tyla asked that night, fiddling with the end of her spear. Her face was streaked with dirt and grime, and her mousy hair was tied back behind her head. 

Jon warmed his hands over the fire. “My brother, hopefully. A way to beat the Walkers, as well… if my dreams are correct, then perhaps even a dragon egg,” he replied haphazardly as Ghost settled beside him, biting down on a chunk of horse meat. They had lost another one of their garrons the night before–it had broken a leg after slipping on the ice and had to be put down. The rider, Berra, was alright, at least, and had simply joined another one of the wildlings. The horses were dropping like flies, Jon lamented, and worried if the gods were behind it–which ones, he wasn’t sure, but the thought came to mind more than once.

“A dragon egg, truly?” Lyne from the Split Mountain Tribe questioned, sitting next to Teo. Teo’s warg bond was a goshawk, and perched on his lap and eating meat out of his hand. When Jon nodded, he whistled, “That’d be something else.”

Jon shrugged lazily, and turned back to Tyla, who was fiddling with her ears.

“Tyla,” Jon spoke, and she looked at him expectantly, “what type of piercings are those?” He asked, curious. They were pierced with crude white adornments.

“These?” She questioned, gesturing to them. “These are a tradition to our clan. Each decade you live, you earn a piercing. We use reindeer bones for them. Look at Styllen–he has seven. Old cunt that he is, he’s good at one thing, and it’s living.” The man in question hadn’t paid her any attention, as he was too busy tormenting Tom again with stories, so she lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. “He’s gone through tough shit, though. It’s said that one day, decades ago, he went to go hunt some crows with my pa and some other folk from our clan. I was but a babe, so I don’t remember, but it’s what my older sister always told me. He returned alone, and crazed. Went on and on about some pretty fucking blue stars or something along those lines for a bit until one day he just shut up. Was never the same since.”

Jon shifted uneasily, and turned his head towards Styllen. There was a glint in the man’s eye that was a bit off putting, but nothing so dreadful as to fear for anyone’s well being. He shrugged, “So long as he doesn’t scar Tom mentally, I think we’ll be okay.” 

Tyla laughed, and cuffed him aside the head. “Alright, boy. You should call it a night.” 

He shook his head, “I’m first on watch tonight. Don’t worry about it.”

***

_Jon yawned, stretching. The snow was beginning to fall, moonlight reflecting idly off the ground. He sniffed the air, and the scent of pine, snowfall, and rabbit surrounded him. He licked his lips and began to prowl forwards, fur illuminated in the dead of the night. Then he spotted it–a small hare crouched in a clearing. It was a little stringy, but looked like good meat nonetheless. Jon paused, waiting for it to feel secure and become lethargic, before lunging and trapping it between his jaws._

_Blood dripped down his maw, dying his white fur red. He ate it fast and without respite, gnawing on the bones when they grew meatless. Content, he headed back towards camp just as the sun began to rise on the horizon, padding along in the snow with a full stomach and–_

Jon shot awake, panting and with the taste of blood in his mouth. He held his hand to his lips, expecting to see a spot of red, or _something,_ but his mouth was fine. _What… was that?_ He wondered, but his answer came soon enough as Ghost trotted towards him happily, giving him a lick on the face in greeting. Jon, shocked, just sat awestruck as he scratched Ghost behind the ear. _That was warging._

His direwolf just nudged him impatiently, and Jon noticed that the others were rousing as well. He looked to check who was on watch, and was only slightly irked to see that it was Tom, who had fallen asleep on duty. 

He shuffled out of his bedroll and packed it back up, before joining the rest to break their fast on some hard bread. Tom had woken up from his slacking off, and at least had the sense to look sheepish and apologize. Jon patted him on the back and told him not to do it again, and that was that.

There was about a day’s journey left to the weirwood, and Jon felt a horrendous mix of anxiety and excitement. He chose to distract himself by thinking about his dream instead. _Could I call it a dream, truly, if it was reality?_

Jon took it to Teo, who was ecstatic to help him learn the basics. This was new to Jon, as Teo had been relatively soft-spoken and quiet since they had met. The man usually let his friend Lyne speak for them both. Jon hadn’t actually seen the two apart, yet. It was strange, but he wasn’t one to comment on it.

“And this has never happened before?” Teo asked from the back of Lyne’s horse where he sat. The larger man just rode in silence, occasionally butting in on Teo and Jon’s conversation to make a small comment or joke.

“Aye,” Jon confirmed. “I’ve always felt close to Ghost, but never fully knew why. He was my friend–my sole companion throughout many difficult times in my life, but I’d never expected something like this.”

Teo hummed, “Well, it isn’t all that strange. I mean, you Starks have the blood of the First Men in you, just like us. That should explain it, really.” 

Jon nodded, but that made him think. _Where do my dreams of flame come from, then? Are they from the Lord of Light? Is it my resurrection that’s given me some affinity to fire?_ And then, though he didn’t wish to tread on it, _Or did my resurrection simply awaken something that had laid dormant?_

He shook his head, no use in questioning something you cannot find the answer for, at least not at the time. Besides, Jon had no clue as to how his blood would give him dreams of fire, so he concluded that it was likely the resurrection that had triggered it. He returned his attention to Teo. “So… how do I do this, again?”

“We’ll work on it when we set up camp for the night. I don’t wish for you to fall off your poor horse and into the snow,” he supplied with a small laugh, and Jon smiled.

***

When they finally did make camp, it was early. They’d be arriving by the weirwood in one day more, and Jon was antsy. By proxy, so was Ghost, and so the wolf had tackled Jon to the ground as soon as he’d gotten off his horse. Jon was laughing, which maybe didn’t help his brooding and serious image, but the restlessness of his friend never failed to lighten his mood, and he was grateful for it.

“I swear, boy, you’re as much of a pup now as you were when I first found you.” He smiled into Ghost’s scruff, and the wolf responded with a long lick to the face–which Jon was less grateful for–before bounding away to go bother Edd, who was setting up the fire.

Teo approached him again–alone, to Jon’s surprise, though Lyne was out collecting firewood, so he really shouldn’t be as shocked as he was–with his goshawk on his shoulder. “Alright, let’s begin.”

And so Jon learnt a good amount of the basics towards warging. It was a good struggle to actually move into Ghost’s body, and he was only able to do so for a minute, but Teo applauded him all the same.

“That was good!” He applauded, and Jon wondered briefly how somebody could be so cheerful nowadays. “Very good. It oft takes beginners much longer than that. Though, you already have a bond with Ghost, so I s’pose it isn’t all that surprising.”

Jon replied with a solid, “Thank you,” before Lyne returned from the trees with dry firewood in hand. Teo turned towards Lyne, just watching him oddly. Jon peered at him, confused; he recognized that look in his eyes. “I have a question, though you don’t need to answer it.”

“Go ahead,” Teo encouraged. _Oh_. And then Jon realized he had no real way to ask without coming off as rude. “Are you and Lyne… are you two…” he trailed off, feeling terribly embarrassed as he saw Teo’s amused expression.

“Lovers?” The warg finished for him. “Yes. Does that upset you?” He tilted his head, and Jon scrambled to refute that.

“No, no! I just… is that not frowned upon here? Below the Wall it’s… a sin in the eyes of the Seven.”

“But do you not celebrate the Old Gods? They have nothing to outlaw loving a man. They only frown upon the kinslayers, and those that bed their parents and siblings. And slavers, of course. Men were made to be free.” Teo explained, as though he were talking to a child, and though that annoyed Jon to a degree, he appreciated the words. 

“Gods, you all really are free,” he said, longing in his voice. “I wish it were like that in the South as well.” _To make a world in which people are truly allowed to love who they wish. Where they’re taken care of and looked after by their own, and by their leaders._ Jon shook away the thought, because that was a fantasy that would never come to pass, especially if they didn’t defeat the Night King and his army.

Teo just agreed in a light tone of voice before moving away. Edd took his place shuffling next to Jon as the fire began to crackle.

“Never thought I’d miss the Wall this much,” Edd vocalized, warming his hands over the fire. “At least there isn’t as much shoveling this expedition.”

“I never really participated in all that much shoveling.” Jon admitted, “‘was with the free folk for a great portion of that time, and we didn’t really shovel all that much.”

“I’d call you a lucky bastard, but once you returned you had three arrows stuck in you, so I can’t really say that in good conscience.” And then, “Actually, fuck that. Do you know how much shit I had to shovel? Because I swear to the gods that by the end I had stepped in more pig shit than I had snow.” He complained, and Jon laughed.

“If you want me to shoot three arrows in you, I’d oblige.” He jested in return.

“Ah, bugger off.”

***

They were finally there–the weirwood. It was beautiful, actually, all reds and whites against the afternoon sun. The face carved into it was haunting, perhaps, but the face of a heart tree brought him back to the Winterfell godswood, no matter how frightening it may look. A harsh wind bit at them, but they weren’t deterred. Finally, after a month's journey, they had arrived.

The snowfall was relatively light, all things considered, and Jon was thankful for it. They were all weary and cold, and Berra had gotten frostbite on two of her toes. Hopefully, she’d be able to heal without needing to amputate them, but they couldn’t know for sure until they were somewhere safe–and preferably a bit warmer, too.

There were one-and-ten of them left out of the original five-and-ten, which was a bit disheartening, but Jon was glad that they at least had that many left. Both of their guides were alive as well, which he was thankful for–Styllen for the forest and Lyne for the mountains, along with Ulfan from the Frozen Shore, and Yenda from a northern clan just south of the Thenns, all in case they needed to range further out. 

When they reached the entrance to the cave, a small, humanoid creature with buggishly large eyes was waiting for them. Tyla gasped and chided the group when they prepared to draw their weapons. “That’s a child of the forest, you oafs!” She hissed to them at their uneasiness. The others began to mutter among themselves in shock. 

Jon hesitated, before going all in and approaching the creature. “Is my brother here?” He asked, because that was his priority for the time being. The Others take his magical _fate_ , he wanted to see his little brother.

“Yes. Come now, Jon Snow. Time is of the essence.” The child said, before looking at the rest of his group. “You all may come as well.” They allowed, and led the ragtag team inside. The tops of the cave were low, so the tallest of them needed to duck their head and crouch. Jon wasn’t as tall as Lyne or Berra, or even Tom, but he had to bow his head just a little as well. The air was musty, and smelt of dust and moss and dirt. 

Jon looked to the spears on the wall. “These are dragonglass,” he observed, and the child nodded.

“Yes. They kill the Others,” they replied sagely. “Along with other things.”

Jon swiveled towards the child as they continued through the tunnels. “What other things? I know that there’s fire, but will it kill a Walker? What else?”

The child led him forwards, and the ceiling began to expand into a cavern. Jon straightened up, no longer needing to hang his head. The roots of the great weirwood took up the entire center of the cave, and bones littered the floor. Jon drew in a sharp breath as he laid eyes on a boy, in the center of the cave, eyes a vacant white and body limp, but oh so familiar.

“Bran?” He asked, and his voice echoed in the cave. He didn’t get an answer– _was he warging?_ It was then that he noticed the other three in the cave–the very same ones from his vision. Hodor, who seemed to recognize him, and whose eyes brightened a little, the young girl who was Bran’s companion, and the man in the tree. It was even more gruesome in reality; gnarled roots growing around and throughout his body. He was wrinkled and old, and there was a patchy birthmark on one side of his face. Before he could get another word out, the girl drew her spear and pointed it at him. Jon waited for the child to declare that he and his group were friends, not foes, but they just walked off to their brethren. _Oh, thanks._ Edd and Tyla drew their weapons from behind him, but he held up a hand to stop them.

“Who are you?” The spear-girl demanded, and Jon was reminded of Arya and her fierceness. A pang of grief shot through him at the thought of his little sister. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Jon Snow–Bran’s older brother.” He introduced himself before hesitating. _Do I really need to explain myself to her?_ The look in her eyes and spear at his throat prompted him to continue, though. “I had a vision of this place from the Wall while I was… incapacitated. I was told to come here in the vision, so here I am. I know about as much of this as you do, I’m afraid.” The girl paused, soaking in his words, before drawing back her spear and setting it against the side of the cave. “Who are you?” He asked.

“Meera Reed. I travelled with my brother, Jojen, alongside Bran, from the Wolfswood to the Wall to here.” She replied.

“Reed... as in Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch? Where is your brother?”

Meera paused, biting the inside of her cheek for a quick second. “Yes, my father is the Lord of Greywater Watch. My brother… did not make it.” 

“Oh,” Jon said, because what else can you say. He knew the pain of losing a brother, but that didn’t make it any better. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “No matter,” she muttered, though it clearly _did_ matter. “Do you know Hodor?” The half-giant was behind her, smiling dopily at Jon. 

“Yes, I–” Jon began, but was swept into a tight embrace before he could get anything out. He hadn’t even known the stable boy all too well back in Winterfell, but he supposed that any reminder of home was good enough for the both of them, and patted Hodor’s back.

When he let go, Jon had to regain his footing before introducing his company to Bran’s. Once through, he motioned to Bran before asking Meera, “Is he warging?”

Meera shifted, “In a way. Your brother… he has the sight.” 

“The sight?” Jon asked, as the others began to settle around the cave, the wildlings taking interest in Hodor. 

“Yes, he can see the future, the past, and the present, all in one. At least, the three-eyed raven says so.” 

“And I’m guessing the three-eyed raven is him?” Jon asked, pointing to the wizened man in the tree.

Meera nodded. “You guess right. I have no clue as to how long he’s been down here, but he knows things.”

“I’m counting on it,” Jon replied, looking up the dirt and roots above him. “I need to know how to beat the Others.”

***

Jon waited a great bit of time for Bran to wake again; everyone else was asleep in the cavern, save for a couple children shuffling around and harvesting moss every other hour. They planned to look over the children’s weapons when they woke, to see if they were replicable, but Jon couldn’t sleep before talking with his brother again. When the boy finally regained consciousness, Jon had to refrain from rushing to him. He instead walked towards him, tears gathering in his eyes. 

“Jon?!” Bran exclaimed, shocked. “What are you doing here?”

But he could do nothing but drop to his knees to embrace his younger brother, and the boy began to cry into his shoulder, just a little. Jon couldn’t stop himself from doing the same. 

“I thought you were dead, Bran.” He murmured, “I thought you were dead, and then I heard from Sam that you had departed for beyond the Wall, and I thought that you would die up here as well.”

Bran swatted playfully at him. “I won’t die. Have some more faith in me, Jon.” He retorted when they split, and Jon softened.

“I know, you’re strong–almost a man grown, even. I just never believed that I would see you again.” He smiled, and Bran returned it, before it turned into a more curious expression.

“What are you doing here, though? Are you on a mission for the Night’s Watch?” He asked, and Jon bit his lip, pondering what he should and shouldn’t divulge to Bran.

“I am no longer part of the Night’s Watch.” Jon said, “I have been released from my vows. I’m up here due to a vision I had–I need to find a way to defeat the Others.” Bran looked at Jon with an alarmingly knowing expression, but didn’t question him further. Jon wondered how much his brother was aware of now, due to his sight.

“The three-eyed raven can help.” He pointed at the man in the tree with a small grin, who just gazed down at the two with his single eye, emotionless. It sent a shiver up Jon’s spine. “He’s been training me–I can see the past. I’ve even seen father and uncle Benjen from when they were children! And I saw aunt Lyanna as well, she looked just like Arya!”

Jon smiled, and ruffled Bran’s hair. He may be older now, but he was still his younger brother. Speaking of which, “Bran, where’s Rickon?” He inquired, hopeful.

Bran’s smile dropped. “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in a long while since I departed for the Wall. He was with Osha when I last saw him.” 

“Who’s Osha?”

“She’s the wildling woman who took care of us. She was a prisoner at Winterfell after her friend tried to kill me, but then she helped us escape when Theon took control. She had looked after us ever since.” He said fondly, and Jon was just taken aback at how much Bran had gone through since they had last seen each other.

“At least he’s in safe hands, then.” _I hope._ “Now,” he turned to the three-eyed raven, “why is it that you summoned me here? Do you know how to end the Night King?”

The three-eyed raven nodded, though it was a weak old nod. “Yes, though that is not entirely why I called you here. You need to know the truth if you are to go forwards.”

“The truth? I know I’m a warg now, if that’s–” 

“Your mother.” The raven cut him off, and Jon stilled.

He shared a look with Bran, who was equally as shocked. “You know who my mother is?”

“Yes. I know who your mother was.” He replied, and the ‘was’ in that sentence felt like an arrow through his heart, though he didn’t show it.

Jon peered at the elderly man, suspicious. “Who are you?”

“Some men knew me as Brynden Rivers, some knew me as Bloodraven. Others knew me as the Hand of the King to King Aerys I and King Maekar I. Now, I am the three-eyed raven, and that is all I will ever be.”

“You should be dead,” Jon commented as he twisted his hands in his lap from where he had sat down by Bran. “You’re incredibly old.”

“The magic from the weirwood keeps me alive, though I will not live forever. Your brother is to succeed me.”

Jon felt a hot flash of anger burn through him at the thought of Bran, old and wizened with a tree growing through him. He seethed, but pushed down the rage for a later time. He could deal with that later. Right now, he had other things to worry about. “My mother?” He repeated, and the raven nodded.

“I will show you,” he said, and Jon was confused, briefly, before Bran set his hand on the tree and fell limp. Jon swallowed, and cautiously followed his brother’s example.

_They were outside a tower, all three of them. Bran seemed to go pale near immediately, while Brynden had the most passive look on his face that Jon had ever seen. Jon tapped Bran lightly on the shoulder as to snap him out of it, and his little brother blinked before sending him the most non-reassuring smile known to mankind._

Had Bran seen this before? _Jon wondered as they watched a group of men approach three knights. Bran pointed towards the only familiar face there. “That’s father,” he said, and then went on to point out the other men._

Arthur Dayne, Howland Reed, Gerold Hightower… this was the Tower of Joy _, Jon realized._ But what does this have to do with my mother?

 _They had reached the part where Howland Reed had stabbed Ser Arthur in the back–which had shocked Jon, truly–when a baby’s cry rang from the tower. An inkling of an understanding sprouted in Jon’s mind, but he swiftly stomped it down._ No. 

_Bloodraven led Bran and Jon up the tower after their father, and their eyes set upon a bed of blood and winter roses._

_And in Lyanna Stark’s arms was a baby boy._

_And from her lips came the words, “His name is Jaehaerys Targaryen.” And, “Promise me, Ned.”_

_And Jon saw his mother’s life slip away on the birthing bed, at the mere age of sixteen._

_“No,” he gasped, rushing towards his mother, ignoring the raven’s warnings._

_And Jon was just so_ in the moment _, so consumed by grief, because he will never see his mother again._ She’s beautiful, _he notes,_ even moments away from death she is stunning _. The wild twinkle in her eye still shone, however blurred by tears, and her full lips were swollen and red from being bit down upon, but she was still beautiful. And her hand fell to the bed, too weak to move._

_He grabbed onto her limp hand, holding it as tight as he could, even though he was not truly there. But then she squeezed back, and she met his eyes, and she smiled and whispered the words “I love you, my darling boy,” as Ned looked away towards Jon’s newborn self._

_And then she was gone._

Jon snapped out of it with a shuddering gasp, and tears were already rushing down his face. He heaved out shallow breaths, as Bran just _stared_ at him in shock and horror. “Jon–” he started, but Jon cut him off.

“This…” Jon cried, wincing at how weak his voice was. He was glad that no one was awake yet, though Edd was stirring in the corner. He lowered his volume, “This cannot be true.” 

_He was the son of Lyanna Stark. Lyanna Stark, who had been kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar Targaryen. Jon, who was their son, Jaehaerys Targaryen… or was it Rivers? Waters? Ned Stark, who was not his father, but his uncle._ “It cannot be,” he repeated.

Bloodraven looked down at him, and Jon could almost, _maybe,_ call the look in his eye sympathetic. “It is. And there is more, if you can bear it.” Jon didn’t know if he _could_ bear it, in all honesty, but he nodded anyways, and set his hand next to Bran’s on the weirwood roots.

_They were in a much more serene setting, this time, and Jon could feel his hysteria drifting away, for only a bit. He saw his mother, and a silver-haired prince that could only be his father, Prince Rhaegar. They were before a… weirwood tree._

_“We’re on the Isle of Faces,” Bloodraven explained, but Jon barely heard him as he focused in on his parents’ eyes._

_They were filled with love, and adoration, and respect, and Jon wanted to chuck himself into the water surrounding them and drown, because there was no way that this was happening. “But he was married to Elia Martell,” Jon protested as he helplessly watched the septon tie their hands together with a white cloth._

_“Keep watching.” The raven responded briskly as the two lovers kissed. Jon looked at them, at his parents, and he didn’t know what to feel._

_He watched as the two danced alone on the Isle after the wedding, laughing and talking in hushed tones about how much they loved each other as the starlight reflected in their eyes._

_“Where will we go?” His mother asked, voice soft._

_Rhaegar Targaryen pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and held her cheek in his hand. “The Tower of Joy in Dorne. I’ll appoint some of the Kingsguard loyal to me to watch over and protect you. A war is brewing and I don’t wish for you to be caught up in it.”_

_“I don’t need protection, Rhae.” She chided, rolling her eyes._

_“I know,” Jon’s father acknowledged. “You’re my she-wolf,” he teased and swept her into another kiss. “My wild Lyanna.”_

_She laughed, and tears swelled once again in Jon’s eyes. Her laugh sounded like wind chimes, light and lovely. Her voice was a hushed whisper as she told him, “There’s another wolf on the way, too. A dragon and a wolf in one.”_

_Rhaegar’s eyes widened in shock. “You... you’re sure?”_

_Lyanna swatted at him. “I wouldn’t tell you if I wasn’t sure, you lovable fool.”_

_“Oh, Lya!” Jon’s father cried as he swept her up and spun her around. “That’s wonderful news! Elia wrote back, she said that she will welcome you into the family with open arms, and that perhaps she can grow fond of you as well–our child can grow up with Rhaenys and Aegon in the Red Keep once the war is won. You will be Queen alongside Elia, and the realm will prosper yet again. We’ll all be together.” He grinned, and laughed a little as she embraced him again._

_“It seems like a dream,” she murmured into his shoulder. “This all seems far too good to be true. I fear that I’ll wake up to a reality of marrying Robert and sitting by as he takes whores all day.” She continued bitterly._

_“My darling Lyanna, this is no dream. This is the greatest blessing the gods have ever bestowed upon me. To be with you, to be the father to our child. It’s the sweetest reality there is.”_

_His father’s voice sounded like a melody, Jon noticed. It went well with his mother’s wind chime of a laugh. Together, they were a song._

_Jon longed to approach the two, to see them up close and hold them and meet them, but Bran grabbed his hand and the world spun into black._

When Jon came out of it this time, he was face-to-face with Bran. The joy of the previous scene was gone, and Jon collapsed against the weirwood roots, limbless.

“Jon,” Bran said softly, “You’re the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And Robert’s Rebellion was built upon a lie,” Jon added, about to comment again before the clanging of a spear hit the ground and took his attention. “Both of my parents are long dead and gone, and all I have of them is a single memory."

All of a sudden, the clatter of a spear hitting the dirt was heard, and they both turned towards it sharply. In the corner of the cavern, where they were to inspect the children of the forest’s weapons, Edd was staring at them, wide-eyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To explain as to why it only takes them a month to get to the three eyed raven’s cave when it takes bran like a season to get from the Wall to the raven is:
> 
> The timeline of game of thrones/asoiaf is all jumpy, first off, and things aren’t linear; they’re more scattered. not every season is an entire year in the GoT world. most of them aren’t, really.
> 
> I set craster’s keep as about* the midpoint from the Wall (it’s 60 miles, and a horse at walking speed can go about 4 miles an hour on average. however, due to the snow, I took that down to 2 miles an hour) to the tree, so they ride for about 10 hours each day, and they’d make it to crasters in about three days. I added a delay to this, to add in the first wight fight and just make it a bit slower paced, and so it takes them approximately a week to arrive to craster’s ruins instead.
> 
> So given the information above, it would take them maybe another week to get to the weirwood interrupted. However, there are frequent wight attacks, hunting breaks, breaks to water the horses, weather issues, and other problems that arise throughout the journey there, so it ends up taking them two extra weeks or so to arrive. I hope that makes some semblance of sense.
> 
> So yeah! Things really begin to pick up from here on out. I didn’t want to make Rhaegar an ass in this, despite the fact that I could. I want Jon to have a fond memory of his parents, even though it provides very little comfort, I wanted something wholesome before everything goes to proper hell. So... maybe some ooc for Rhaegar but it isn't as though he's a major player in this.
> 
> *By about, I don't mean exactly. Craster’s is closer to the Wall than to the weirwood. If you guys want a map reference, I can put one together for you and link it in the next chapter. Just comment below if you’d like me to do so.


	4. Jon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon tells the truth and talks with Bran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we continue! I’m really enjoying writing this fic, and I hope that you enjoy reading it. I hope not to make this story too slow-paced, but I don’t like moving too fast. I want to make this a good read for you all, though, so please give me your thoughts in the comments below! I have no beta reader so I get no feedback, unfortunately. Anyways, enjoy the chapter!

Jon’s breath hitched in his throat as he met Edd’s shocked stare. A dragonglass spear was at the man’s feet, forgotten. His voice croaked as he started weakly, “Edd, I’m–” 

But Edd was already cautiously striding towards him at the center of the cave, shooting Bran an equally confused look. “What in the seven hells are you two on about?” He demanded, “What’s all this about the Rebellion and you being a bloody fucking king? Is this some sort of joke?” 

“Edd,” Jon said sharply, though he was a bit hysterical as well, at the moment, “please wake everyone up. We may as well get this out of the way now rather than later.” He shot his friend a desperate look at his reluctance. “Please,” he repeated, a bit softer this time, “I don’t think I can do it myself right now.”

His friend nodded, unsure, but concerned, and followed his direction. As the others began to rouse, Jon turned to Bloodraven. The old man was watching him passively, and it was incredibly unsettling. 

“This is all true?” Jon pressed, drawing in a deep breath to try and fix the fact that his lungs felt heavy as lead. “All of that… that was the truth?” 

The raven replied, “Yes. That was a direct vision of the past. There is nothing to gain from lying to you, Jaehaerys.” And  _ wow, _ did that make him cringe.

“Jon,” he corrected coldly. “It’s still Jon, no matter what you say.”

He received a skeptical hum in response that had his shoulders tense. Jon looked back around the cavern, and inhaled for a semblance of confidence.  _ Gods, what has my life become? _ Jon considered as he stood to address his companions, throwing a pained look to Bran before launching into an explanation.

There were a variety of different reactions as Jon recounted what he had learned, though he did omit many of the details of what he had seen. They didn’t need to know about the roses on his mother’s deathbed, or the twinkle in his father’s eye. Most of said reactions were passive, which had shocked him at first, and then he realized that the wildlings knew next to nothing in regards to southern politics. That eased his worries a bit, but only a little, especially given how Tom was now staring at him as though he were a god.

“You–you’re the rightful heir to the throne, I–” the boy stuttered, and then kneeled. “Your grace,” he bowed his head respectfully to Jon, much to the amusement of the wildlings. And Jon’s chagrin. It reminded him, embarrassingly so, of his first interaction with Mance Rayder. He was glad, momentarily, that Tormund wasn’t there to make the comparison.

Tyla cackled, “You kneelers can’t go a day without naming a new king, huh?” She japed, smacking Jon roughly on the back as he sighed and strutted towards Tom, hoisting him up.

“None of that, Tom. Gods’ sake, I’m no king in the slightest. Even if what we learned is true, I’d rather eat my own foot than sit on that cursed throne.” Jon spat, running a hand through his matted hair. “We’re hundreds of leagues away from the South and their bloody politics, don’t drag that shit up here.” 

“But still, you–” the boy began, but Jon silenced him with a hard look. 

“We’ll speak no more of the matter for the time being,” he announced. “I let you all know this because there was no point in keeping a secret like this away from you all, and because I’d rather get it out of the way now than let it hinder us later on.” He looked to Bloodraven, “What is it that you summoned me here for? It cannot be to just tell us that. We lost good men travelling here, I’d never forgive myself if this is what their sacrifice was for.” 

The old man gave him a slight inclination of his head in acknowledgement. “This is no small secret, Jaehaerys–” Jon winced at the mention of his given name, “–you’d be best to remember that, despite what you may wish to say or feel.” He cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, you are correct. I did not send for you simply because of your heritage. There is something up here beyond the Wall that only you can awaken, due to your blood. I searched for it, long ago when I was still young, but my fate lay here, with the weirwood. It is–”

“A dragon egg.” Jon interrupted, everything clicking together. “There’s a dragon egg somewhere up here.” He realized, “And dragons breathe fire.”

“Yes,” the raven responded monotonously. “It has been guarded by the children for centuries, protected from the Others by the very same magic that keeps us safe now, in this cave. It lies in the mountains west of us, in Skirling Pass.”

Berra spoke up from the back of the room in her sharp voice, “How come we’ve never heard of no dragon egg before? My people come from the Frostfangs, and we’ve not once heard a tale of no dragons up north."

“The egg was a closely guarded secret, something that has resided here since before the Doom of Valyria, when dragons were great and many. The dragon that had laid it has long since passed, its corpse so deep under the Bay of Ice that not even the Night King himself can reach it. According to the children, it had laid two eggs, though only one survived to today’s time. You are one of the only Targaryens left in the world, and our only hope of hatching the egg.”

Jon’s brows knitted together in frustration, and his jaw tensed at the thought of being a Targaryen.  _ But I am. I’m a Targaryen now–or I always have been, I suppose. _ He shook his head, tossing away the thought.  _ Later, _ he chided himself. _ Focus. _ “But isn’t there another Targaryen? In Essos, Daenerys–could she not hatch it?”

“As you said, she is in Essos, and the time of her eventual return is unknown. I do not believe that she would even focus on the events unfolding here in the North regardless, given how she has no way of knowing what is occurring.” Bloodraven said, and Jon cursed himself because that was a reasonable argument.

Bran spoke up, “So Jon is supposed to go to the Frostfangs?” He frowned, “That’s incredibly risky, especially given how active the Night King is.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed, “But I don’t see what else there is for us to do. If I was sent up here to retrieve a dragon egg, then I’ll get the damned egg, I suppose.” He gritted his teeth a little, regarding the others in the room, “But I will not force you all to come with me. This is going to be dangerous.” He warned, looking at Tom in particular.

“Bugger off with that rubbish,” Tyla spat, crossing her arms. “I’m no craven, Jon Snow–or whatever your name is now. I left the safety of the Wall to help you on this bullshite mission, and I’m going to see it through so that we get all the help we can to defeat those blue eyed shits.”

Others murmured their agreement, some looking more confident than others, though all resolute in their intention. Tom spoke up, “I think I am a craven, honestly,” he began, flushing red near immediately as all attention was fixed on him, “but I’ve gotten this far, and I don’t mean to leave now. This may be my first ranging, but I won’t abandon my duty.” He fumbled with his words, but stood straight, and Edd clapped him on the back in approval.

“I’m with this one here,” he said, gesturing to the boy as he stumbled from the blow. Edd gazed to Jon, “No matter what your name is, or what lies in your blood, you’re my brother. That stands for something, even if that something is freezing our balls off together.”

Well, that was about as sincere as Edd could get, Jon figured, and shot him a grateful smile in response. “Don’t be silly, Edd. We both know you don’t have balls.”

And so for the time being, things would be alright.

***

The next week went by far too quickly by Jon’s standards. He had only just seen his brother again after years of being apart, but they were all pressed for time and him staying would only pose greater risk to them all, especially given how Bran had been marked by the Night King.

Still, it was a relatively good time, and a welcome reprieve from the unforgiving cold of the outside world. Berra’s frostbite had thawed, though Tyla did have to cut off one of the toes. Berra hadn’t even screamed during the process, which cemented a new level of respect Jon had for the young girl. She was Lyne’s younger sister, eight or so years younger than him and two years younger than Jon. He found her similar to Ygritte, in a way–great at fighting (though her weapon of choice was two small stone hatchets instead of a bow) and even better at making fun of those she loved, to the dismay of Lyne and Teo.

_ “Oh!” Berra interjected one night in sudden realization as they sat together, eating. Even Bran had joined them this time, Bloodraven granting him some human interaction outside of Hodor, Meera, and himself, if he really counted as human anymore. _

_ Meera turned to her, nibbling on a piece of jerky that they had given her from their rations (“Thank you so much! I haven't eaten anything outside of moss in over a year.”), “What?” _

_ The spearwife grinned cheekily, and it was a chilling thing. It reminded Jon of when Arya was planning on embarrassing him in front of Robb, Lord Stark, or… well, anybody, really. “I just thought of an entertaining tale to keep us hearty in these trying times.” She crowed as Lyne and Teo groaned in displeasure, seemingly aware of her thought process. _

_ “Berra, if you even  _ think  _ of talking about that while there is a  _ child _ here I will stick a spear so far up your ass that you’ll have splinters between your teeth for moons.” The larger man threatened, but his sister only laughed. _

_ “He isn’t a child,” she said, turning to Bran, who sat at Jon’s side. “How old are you, boy?” _

_ “I’m four-and-ten?” Bran responded, confused. _

_ Berra squawked at this, “See? I’d lost my maidenhead three times over by his age. He’s a man grown, he can hear this.”  _

_ And with such, Jon hoisted Bran up and away from the conversation to the opposite end of the room, because albeit Bran was older, Jon would be damned if he allowed his younger brother to bear witness to that kind of conversation while he was around. _

_ “I’m not a child, Jon.” Bran scolded, and Jon grimaced a bit, but wasn’t at all cowed. _

_ He shook his head, “I know, but I myself don’t really want to hear about it, and given the reactions over there–” which were loud, varying noises of hysteria and disturbance “–I don’t think it would be wise for you to either.” _

_ Bran scoffed good-naturedly, “Alright. What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?” _

_ “How did you know there was something I wanted to talk to you about? I could have just wanted to salvage any innocence you have left.” Jon countered. _

_ “No,” Bran laughed, “You’re terrible at lying.” He observed, and then, ominously, “You should get better at that.”  _

_ “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jon peered at him. _

_ Bran shrugged, digressing. “What is it you want to talk about, again?” He changed the subject smoothly. _

_ Jon sighed. “Bran,” he started, “in light of recent… revelations, I wanted to check in on you. I know you’ve gone through a lot, but I doubt you’ve really been able to talk about it.” _

_ “Oh,” Bran said. “Well, I’m not sure where to start…”  _

_ “At the beginning, maybe?” Jon suggested with a smile, which Bran returned before telling his story.  _

_ Once he was finished, Jon leaned back with a heavy exhale and wide eyes. “Wow,” he murmured. “Bran, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there–” _

_ Bran snorted, shuffling a little with his stiff legs. “Jon, please don’t say that. You were exactly where you were supposed to be, as was I.” He studied Jon’s torn expression, “Besides, I doubt that I’m the only thing on your mind right now.” _

_ Jon bit the inside of his cheek, “Bran, I don’t want to burden you with any of that. You have enough going on.”  _

_ “Well, there’s always room for more,” the boy jested, but Jon shook it off. _

_ “No,” he said firmly, because he didn’t really want Bran to learn about the fact he had died–not for some time, at the least–nor be aware of the turmoil that was bubbling underneath his skin. “I’ll tell you once we’re all back together, and safe, alright? I don’t think I’ve even finished processing everything, yet, anyways,” he excused. _

_ Bran just stared at him for a good moment, and Jon squirmed, a bit uncomfortable. “You’re still my brother, Jon.” He spoke gently, “You’ll always be my brother, no matter what.” And well, Jon would be lying if he didn’t tear up just a little at that.  _

_ He allowed for a sad smile to split his face, “Thank you, little brother. I’ve missed you greatly.” _

_ His brother mirrored his expression. “I missed you too.” _

_ Their tender moment was broken up by Berra, who was cackling so loudly that Jon had to walk over and break up the commotion. _

Her story had ended up with Tom fainted on the floor, which initially made Jon pretty damn worried, but the boy had woken up with no injury outside of whatever mental damage he’d taken from Berra’s antics. Besides, that was a few days past, and he was fine for the time being, so there wasn’t much need for concern. The boy just seemed to fluster himself into passing out, much to the merriment of the witnessing wildlings. 

They were currently preparing to go west to the Frostfangs. Lyne had gotten all the information he needed from the children, given that he would be their guide through the inhospitable mountains, and now knew the general area of where they were to go. Jon worried a bit about how they would fare. The winds would be rough and biting and the snow would prove just as harsh and unforgiving, if not moreso. Jon had travelled the mountains in the late summer and early autumn while still with the wildlings and Ygritte; they were already abrasive enough, and now winter was growing closer and closer by the second, if the shortening days were any indication. He was apprehensive to experience how the conditions had worsened. 

Already, it would be a hard trek to get there; it was cold and the snow was heavy, but they had Styllen to guide them from where they were near the Antler River to the Fist of the First Men, and then Lyne to take them from there. Jon could only hope that it would be enough.

His group packed for the journey with relative ease. Tyla had taken one of the children’s dragonglass spears at their behest, and it was strapped to her back with her daggers at her waist. Edd was hurrying Styllen and Tom along, and Lyne, Berra, and Teo were already set to go. Ulnof was readying the horses outside of the cave with the help of Yenda, and Jon was saying his goodbyes to Bran and company. 

Meera–the girl that had been fiercely protective of Bran–was first. Jon didn’t know her very well, but grew to respect her over the week. “Take good care of him, please,” he asked of her. “Thank you for getting him this far. I hope to see you again under better circumstances.” 

She gave him a brief nod, “I will, and likewise.” He looked to her gratefully before moving to Hodor, who immediately swept him up in a teary hug.

Jon huffed out something that was half-laugh and half-wheeze and patted the half-giant on the side–his arm couldn’t reach the man’s back. “I’ll miss you too, you big fella.” He remarked.

“Hodor!” Hodor responded, parting from the embrace after giving one lasting squeeze that Jon would likely feel in his ribs for a while.

Then he turned and stepped to Bran, who sat leaning against the wall of the cavern, and the other two wisely walked away to give them privacy. “I’m going to miss you, little brother.” He remarked sadly.

“I’ll miss you too, Jon.” Bran replied, emotion swimming in his eyes. “At least we each get a proper farewell this time around,” he joked, and Jon smiled in return.

He stepped closer to the boy, kneeling down to his height. “This won’t be the last time we see one another,” he promised, though he wasn’t sure if he could make good on it once the words escaped him. 

Bran looked like he knew that, though, given the mournful expression gracing his features. “We’ll both be different when we see each other again,” he forewarned. 

“Aye,” Jon agreed solemnly, but it cracked into a bit of a grin. “If Bloodraven is right, then I should have a dragon once we reunite.” 

That earned him a laugh. “I can’t wait to see it,” his little brother countered. “But I was talking about myself as well.”

“What do you mean?” Jon queried, furrowing his brow.

Bran shifted his back against the wall, some loose dirt falling onto the ground. “I’m scared that I–that I’ll turn up like  _ him,” _ he spoke in a hushed tone of voice as he gestured his head towards the three-eyed raven, the man in question currently in the past with white eyes and a still body. “He’s a husk of a man.” He shivered, “I don’t want that to be me.”

Jon took the boy by his shoulders, looking him firmly in the eye. “Bran.” He started, “You will not become him, not even close. This is a man who has lost his humanity. He had nobody to remind him of who he was other than himself. You have me, alright? And you have Meera and Hodor. Stay true to yourself, little brother.” He hesitated a bit before continuing, “I’ll be honest with you, here. You… you are likely going to see things that you will want to forget, to never have known. But never,  _ never  _ forget yourself, alright? You may have his powers, but you are Brandon Stark of Winterfell, and you are my little brother, and I love you.”

His brother was crying by the time he was done, and it took Jon a moment to realize that he was as well. “Oh, Bran,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around the boy. “You’re incredibly strong, do you know that? Things may be uncertain right now, but I’ll sort it out. You do your best to take care of yourself in the meantime, do you hear me?” 

The boy just nodded, sniffling, so he continued. “You won’t be alone. Not ever. You have friends that care for you, and a family that loves you. I may be your cousin by blood–” it hurt him to say the words, but they were the truth, “–but you are my brother in every way that truly matters.” They parted, and Jon rose after giving mussing his hair like he used to do with Arya. “Goodbye, Bran.”

“Goodbye, Jon. You take care, too.”

And with such, Jon left the cave and his brother, trailing after the others back into the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok! a bit of a shorter chapter this time around :3 next chapter will be from sansa’s point of view. anyways, i hope you all enjoy this chapter! it doesn’t cover much, unfortunately, so sorry about that. as said before, let me know what you think in the comments, please! i treasure feedback of all kinds, whether it be constructive or just encouraging <3


End file.
